John Keats Quotes

Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.

Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience. Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success, inasmuch as every discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true, and every fresh experience points out some form of error which we shall afterwards carefully avoid.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.

The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.

Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

Neither poetry, nor ambition, nor love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me.

My passions are all asleep from my having slumbered till nearly eleven and weakened the animal fiber all over me to a delightful sensation about three degrees on this sight of faintness - if I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor - but as I am I must call it laziness. In this state of effeminacy the fibers of the brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement and pain no unbearable frown. Neither poetry, nor ambition, nor love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me.

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.

Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?

If poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree, then it better not come at all.

To silence gossip, don't repeat it.

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

They swayed about upon a rocking horse, And thought it Pegasus.

My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.

Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.

--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters.

A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.

You might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore.

I have so much of you in my heart.

Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.

My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses

We have oftener than once endeavoured to attach some meaning to that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Shaftesbury, which however we can find nowhere in his works, that "ridicule is the test of truth."

We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

Though the most beautiful creature were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk; though the carpet were of silk, the curtains of the morning clouds; the chairs and sofa stuffed with cygnet's down; the food manna, the wine beyond claret, the window opening on Winander Mere, I should not feel -or rather my happiness would not be so fine, as my solitude is sublime.

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight; With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.

The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.

Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star, Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair.

I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever

Dance and Provencal song and sunburnt mirth! On for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene! With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth.

Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.

Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.

Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.

Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.

...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.

That which is creative must create itself.